


Just This Once

by Arinia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: An idea came, slowly at first, before filling up his heart, setting every nerve alight. It might be another decade, another century even, before he saw Crowley again. No one had come to rescue him from Above. No one had chastised Crowley for wasting a miracle from Below. Perhaps, just this once...The streets of Paris are soaked with blood, and Aziraphale realizes just how much he owes Crowley for saving his life.





	Just This Once

**Author's Note:**

> For a Tumblr prompt: "how about a hesitant and/or breathtaking kiss from that prompt list?"
> 
> I'm currently plugging away at what's shaping up to be a very long, first ever (!!) Good Omens multi-chapter fic, so banging out this little prompt was a nice reprieve from all that angst. And really, I can never get tired of writing these two idiots' first kiss, so in an act of complete self-indulgence, I did both kiss types.

He thought the crepes would take the edge off.

A full belly, where trousers felt a bit too tight, and walking edged on the side of being uncomfortable. He had eaten his fill, savouring the pastries melting on his tongue, washed down with fine wine that simply could not replicated anywhere else. Almost discorporating tended to increase one’s appetite, and he had sampled the entire offering. _Oh, just one more, _he would say, when Crowley cocked an eyebrow. _Goodness knows when I’ll be able to come here again._

Crowley had said nothing, expression closed like always. Staring at Aziraphale the entire lunch, pushing his twice bitten into crepe over wordlessly when Aziraphale began eyeing it. Aziraphale was used to silence from Crowley, preferred it sometimes, particularly when he was eating a delectable meal such as this one. 

So why did he feel so antsy?

That wasn’t an entirely accurate question, though. He knew perfectly well why. Why the air was thick with tension, suffocating and impossible to ignore. Why Crowley’s lips were pursed firmly together, a sliver of pink on tan skin. Plate after plate ordered, more bottles of wine, all to delay the inevitable. To still quaking fingers and slow a racing heart. Around the fifth helping, he was beginning to wonder what the hell had gotten into him. After the seventh glass of red, he was beginning to think _Hell_ getting into him was exactly the problem.

A set up. A poor one, at that. They both knew. The note from Gabriel was from last month, to be sure. But, _strongly worded_ was, perhaps, a bit of a stretch. Not a lie, of course; Aziraphale didn’t condone lying in the slightest. It had been a recommendation; slow down on the miracles is all. The time of Heaven interacting with humans so frequently had long since passed. A miracle here, a miracle there, all quiet, all done with a light touch. Aziraphale was notorious for having a heavy hand.

He could have justified an escape. Nobody liked paperwork, least of all Gabriel. Yet he had stayed put on that cold, stone bench, eyes flicking about for the slightest movement. For the smell of smoke and heady cologne to fill his lungs. It had been decades since they had crossed paths. There was no harm in playing pretend, right? A little game, a little dance. Heaven and Hell were too occupied to be looking at them.

Of course Crowley had to come dressed like _that._ Lithe and lean and with clothes that hugged every inch of him. Hands slick with sweat, heart lodged in his throat, oh, perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Husky words forced between clenched teeth, eyes that smouldered at him, even hidden behind the glasses. Aziraphale’s head felt light, the barren cell walls swimming in his vision, blending together so that only Crowley was in focus. 

A lunch should get things right again. Hard to think such forbidden things when food always made him feel warm and sleepy. 

Except Aziraphale’s hands still shook as they paid their bill, and he couldn’t stop sneaking glances at the striking red curls.

“You’ll be going back to London, I presume?” Aziraphale nearly jumped at hearing that low, throaty voice once more. The streets were quiet at last, eerie and still. The few Parisians out scampered as they walked, staring at Aziraphale’s clothes with wide, guilty eyes. He wasn’t used to humans looking at him like that, and he was beginning to quite regret making the switch.

“Ah yes, yes I will. A shame though, all this... _business_ is going on.” A propaganda leaflet blew past them, calling for the death of every last aristocrat in Europe. He edged closer to Crowley, hardly aware of it. “I do hope this gets sorted out sooner rather than later. I would hate-”

They rounded a corner, and Aziraphale’s words died on his lips. The guillotine stood there, blade shimmering in the low afternoon sun, tell-tale dark red splashed on the wood and cobblestone. He had never seen it in person, did not seem real until now. 

He had nearly met his fate there. Trapped between planks of wood, waiting for the sharp metal to slice open his skin. _His_ blood could be staining the streets, pooling between the cracks of stone and grass. No one would have spoken out in his favour. No last heroic acts like in the books he treasured so much. His death would have been met with jeers. Celebrations.

_A death._

“Let’s go.” Aziraphale didn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away from that shining steel. All for an act. A silly, little game from a silly, little angel. Crowley’s voice was muddled, spoken through water. There was ringing in his ears, mingled with chants for death and vengeance.

“Don’t look, angel.” A hand laid on his back, warm. Eyes peering over at him, a burnished yellow, just like he remembered. They did not touch like this, not so brazen, not so openly. Everything came rushing back, Crowley’s voice clear once more. He swallowed, tried to say something, shore up this sudden wave of vulnerability, but the words stuck in his throat, trapped like flies in honey. Crowley lead him away, hand still on his back, searing through the bolts of cloth. 

They stopped at an inn, the sky a burnt orange, the red of Crowley’s hair more bright than ever before. “A room just came free,” Crowley wasn’t looking at him, face firmly cast towards the door. “Don’t go dashing off for any more pastries, alright? Go home tomorrow morning, I’ve got my own assignments to bloody take care of.”

Crowley had saved him. It was what he had been intending all along. His foolish scheme, dreamed up over far too much wine and cake. A revolution was such a trifling, human event in the grand scheme of things. He was an angel, above such mortal worries like pain and death.

He hadn’t realized until now just what Crowley had prevented. 

“I will,” he promised, soft, unsure. Crowley was still so close. He could see every curve from the curious tattoo by his ear. A part of him wanted to touch it, run his fingers over the black ink and see if it burned with unholy fire. Throat dry, hands shaking, the pleasant buzz from wine in his mind. Crowley had _saved_ him. Had the courtesy to keep to himself he knew of Aziraphale’s little game. No one else would show him such kindness, give such broad leniency for something that could get them both in heaps of trouble.

He had to show his gratitude.

But, how? No material item would come close to covering the risk Crowley took by rescuing him, sticking his neck out not once, but twice; indulging him in crepes and rich drink. A promise to return the favour rang hollow. Crowley was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. There would be no sequel to this little game, not when so much could go so wrong.

An idea came, slowly at first, before filling up his heart, setting every nerve alight. It might be another decade, another _century_ even before he saw Crowley again. No one had come to rescue him from Above. No one had chastised Crowley for wasting a miracle from Below. Perhaps, just this once...

“Crowley.” A shaky breath. “Could you... could you close your eyes, please?” Voice high and thin. Crowley frowned, and Aziraphale realized with his sunglasses on he’d have no way of knowing if Crowley was complying. Panic bubbled up, and he had nearly back-pedalled before Crowley lifted his glasses onto his head and shut his eyes.

Crowley was rigid. Hands shoved deep into his trousers. Jaw clenched so hard the delightful little tattoo stuck out somewhat. This was a bad idea, a horrible idea, but Aziraphale had started the whole damn thing, and he needed to see it through.

He bounced on his tip-toes, wobbling in place for a fraction of a second, heart pounding in his ears, before he closed the gap between them.

It was soft. Barely there. A chaste kiss that contained more than words ever could. He could feel Crowley’s breath fanning across his cheeks, could feel his lips threaten to fall open in surprise, but his eyes remained closed, just like he promised. Aziraphale dared to hold it for a few seconds more, still unsure, still filled with alarm at what boundary he had just crossed. _Just this once. Just because he saved me._ Nevermind how he could taste the leftover wine, the finest dusting of sugar. 

He miracled himself into his room with a snap. Couldn’t bear to see Crowley’s reaction when they pulled apart. He laid in bed that night, eyes screwed tightly shut, body flush and warm like a summer day, replaying the feel of those plaint lips over and over in his mind.

= = = = 

The breeze blew cold, urged jackets to be buttoned up, collars to be held closer to necks. The promise of fall in the air after a long, hot summer. They splashed through chilly puddles, felt heavy fog cling to their skin, but they hardly spared a second thought towards it. 

There almost hadn’t been an autumn. 

“I’m sober enough to drive y’know.” Crowley was smiling though, the kind that made the lines around his eyes crinkle, visible even with his glasses on. The bright lights of London Soho illuminated their path, creating little worlds inside the puddles. “Could have miracled the car to us and everything.”

“Nonsense. We walked to the restaurant, we should walk back.” Their shoulders brushed together, neither sure if it was intentional or not. Careful steps, even now, old habits ingrained in them despite what their hearts urged on. 

“And your trousers are soaked.” Crowley nudged him, Aziraphale nudged back, drinking in these tiny moments and locking them safe away in his mind. “Too high and mighty for a miracle with the car, but I fucking know you’ll ask me to miracle them dry when we get to your shop.”

“No! I can miracle them myself!” Crowley’s lips twitched, fighting down an even grander smile, and Aziraphale wished he would give in and let the joy spread from ear to ear. 

Said car was waiting for them, glistening under the light, London drizzle. Aziraphale had left some lights on in the shop, bathing the streets in a soft, orange glow. Orange that reminded him of the setting sun, centuries ago, outside another old, rustic building.

Crowley had walked him up the steps, leaning against the frame, smile very much vanished. It came the time neither relished in, but neither could bring themselves to admitting aloud. Crowley would speed away, Aziraphale would withdraw with his books and regrets, and another day would wind to a close, with nothing moving forward.

“So, the Museum tomorrow? That lovely new exhibition is opening up, the Mayans, you remember them, don’t you? Oh, they were so delightful! You know, there was this time where-”

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.” Crowley’s voice had shifted. Curt. Hands jammed down his trousers, and Aziraphale faltered. They had been smiling and joking mere minutes ago. What had changed so quickly? Concern bloomed in his heart, flooding through his veins with its potent poison. 

A silence descended, fraught with some strange tension. He could see Crowley’s slender fingers twitch in those too tight jeans. He had not been so on edge since their clever little swap, where they hadn’t been sure if they were ever going to see each other again. Horrified thoughts began to crest in Aziraphale’s mind; Beelzebub paying Crowley a visit, threatening him with untold horrors, saying they had figured it all out and they were on a ticking clock once more...

“Close your eyes.” 

“W-What?” Aziraphale hadn’t been expecting that. Crowley’s frown deepened, body angled away, as if he was about to spring to his car with the slightest provocation. “Why?”

“Nevermind.” The faintest hint of a hiss, and Aziraphale nearly wrung his hands. He was missing something, something vital, something important to Crowley. He flung out his arm, almost touching him before losing his nerve. 

“No, no, here!” His bow-tie suddenly felt constricting, and he tugged at it impatiently. Crowley was still scowling, teeth grinding visibly, even in the lowlight. Aziraphale shut his eyes, clasping his hands together, worrying his ring around his pinky. “Just say when to open them.”

For a long time, nothing happened. Seconds strung out, snapping back at him like an elastic. Crowley was silent; for a moment Aziraphale was convinced he had left, and he might have opened his eyes could he not sense that other-worldly presence radiating on his stoop. He badly wanted to peek, to see what had gotten into Crowley that made him so tightly coiled.

Movement. A slow shuffle, before cold hands grasped his cheeks. Another beat, Crowley’s breathing was erratic, and Aziraphale longed to comfort him, nearly did, before warm lips covered his own. 

Everything stopped. They were not in London. Not in front of his bookshop. Melted away, among the stars. Aziraphale didn’t move at first, taken aback. Crowley was _kissing_ him. Tentative to start, then gathering courage, gathering strength. Fierce, a solar flame, all consuming. Aziraphale let out a soft gasp, quickly, _wonderfully_ swallowed by Crowley, who had pushed him against the wall with a degree of urgency. 

Aziraphale could scarcely gather his thoughts, only knew that his body and mind were separate, mouth moving of its own volition. Crowley’s lips were soft, pliant, just like centuries ago, and Aziraphale had never felt so complete in all his thousands of years. 

It ended, an eternity had passed. Crowley’s hands were still on his cheeks, warm now, heated as the blood rushed to Aziraphale’s face. He kept his eyes closed, lips parted, plump and well-kissed, breathless. Crowley’s nose scraped along his own, that love, pure and deep and timeless, surrounding him. 

At last he opened his eyes, slow, wanting to savour the splendour of feeling the intensity of Crowley’s gaze. He could see the slitted eyes, light perfectly illuminating the glasses, blown out wide. He pushed them upwards, gentle, Crowley could jerk away if he wanted. 

He stayed. Let Aziraphale linger in his hair, pull a wayward strand down between the frames, hanging in his eyes before letting it bounce back in place. Words seemed wasteful, trivial. He didn’t want to spoil the moment with too many. “Come in?” 

Crowley’s limbs unfurled, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He dared to plant another kiss, tender, and another one. Trailing down to his jaw, his neck, marking him, claiming him. Free to do so at long, long last. 

Only the shrill sound of a police siren stopped the kisses in their tracks, somewhere along his collarbone, his bow-tie clenched between spindly fingers. Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh, bump his forehead against the mess of fiery hair, still dazed that this was happening. 

“Miss the 18th century sometimes,” Crowley growled into the hollow of his throat, making his back arch in pleasure. “No fucking sirens there.” Eyes sauntered upwards, one eyebrow raised. “Though, you didn’t give me a chance to actually _respond_ back then.”

They had never mentioned that kiss. At times, Aziraphale had convinced himself it had been a hallucination, for Crowley acted as if it had never occurred. He had thought of it often, despaired over it when he had been sure the world was coming to an end, never having gotten to tell Crowley the truth.

“I wasn’t sure you _wanted_ to respond, my dear." Voice soft, even now, everything still fresh, still new. "I was terribly worried I had made a mess of the Arrangement.” Crowley’s eyes flicked back to his neck, the next sentence so quiet Aziraphale strained to hear.

“Thought of it every day, Aziraphale.”

Fondness exploded in his chest, filling up every crevice, and he tugged Crowley upwards, bestowing his own needy kiss on him. He had no more words to say, only lost time to make up for. He miracled the door open, pulled Crowley inside, and when Crowley shoved a stack of books off his desk to prop him up, Aziraphale even tempered his displeasure.

Just this once.


End file.
